


Starless

by chainofclovers



Series: Land Fathoms [2]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4821161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...as in Paris, the sleep is black and sumptuous and starless, full of unremembered dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starless

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote ["Land Fathoms"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/155218) back in 2009. I always imagined beyond the end of that piece, and have been spending longer than I care to admit carving slowly away at two sequels. This story immediately follows the events of "Land Fathoms," so please read that one first. Thanks so much for reading.
> 
> Note: the conclusion to this series is coming very soon. "Starless" is complete in that it's a self-contained short story, but the series does *not* end here!

When Miranda’s phone alarm wakes them up, and they remember where they are, and they remember what has happened, and that they are in bed together, they agree that more of the kind of rest they’ve just had is priority, but there’s the last day in Paris to get through first. (“You’d better be out of my house before I land in New York,” Miranda hisses at Stephen, holding onto her cell phone with a white-knuckled grip, as she and Andrea drive from one show to another. “Your things, too . . . I don’t care how expensive the truck is.” She pauses when Stephen interrupts to ask a question so decent that his thoughtfulness is almost a disappointment. “Yes, send the girls to John’s mother at the end of the school day—they can take Patricia with them, she never minds—and I’ll pick them up myself tomorrow, after I’ve slept.” She stares at Andrea the whole time she’s speaking. Her eyes narrow slightly on _slept_ , and she thinks it makes Andrea jump, just a bit.) 

Miranda and Andrea are both too wound up to sleep on the plane ride home that night, but they barely speak. Andy spends the entire ride staring past Miranda and out the window, marveling at the sensation of traveling back in time, chasing sunsets across the ocean. 

“Come home with me,” Miranda tells Andy once they’ve collected their luggage and are making their way to ground transportation. “Please?” she amends. “Do you—do you have to go home for anything?”

When Andrea doesn't respond right away, Miranda scans their surroundings for any Runway people, but can tell that the rest of the staff has hung back at baggage claim, equally interested in staying out of Miranda’s hair and gossipping about what happened in Paris. “I want to sleep over,” she says, finally, and frees a hand by hoisting her leather duffle over the same arm that’s already pulling the larger of Miranda’s two suitcases. She places the hand on Miranda’s back. “I want to sleep over, but I have to go home first. I need to put my laundry in the hamper, pack an overnight bag . . . and see if my boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend—actually moved out like he threatened he’d do.”

Miranda nods. “I’ll drop you at your place to save time,” she says, and they pick up the pace.

The apartment Andy returns to is not the same one she left one week before. Later, she will recount for Miranda the way the rooms were mostly bare, especially the kitchen. Nate has taken not only all the cooking equipment (rightfully his), but nearly all of their food. A quick inventory of the fridge yields a half carton of almond milk, a jar of mustard, and—an act of charity on Nate’s part—a single bottle of beer. The couch is gone, the coffee table is gone, the dining room table and chairs are gone. The bed remains, but Andy has no plans to sleep in it. 

She’s at Miranda’s by midnight. The townhouse feels empty, too—not of things (the lack of Stephen’s possessions have left a only ripple of loss) but because of the high ceilings, the shadowy quiet. Miranda meets her at the front door because Andy texts to announce her arrival instead of using her key. They don’t kiss, but eye each other with relief. 

Almost immediately, they prepare for bed. After Andy is ready, she waits for Miranda under the covers, and when she emerges from the ensuite bathroom Andy can see that exhaustion has bruised deep half-circles under her eyes, indelible in appearance even though they weren’t there the night before. Miranda makes herself small in the bed, curling into herself but facing Andy. “You look rough,” Andy says gently. “Beautiful, but rough. C’mere.” Andy has chosen to wear only her underwear again, but Miranda is in long-sleeved silk pajamas, and Andy pulls her close. “Can I take these off?” Miranda nods.

When they are both naked but for underwear, Andy rests her fingers on Miranda’s clavicle and Miranda squirms a little, breathing hard. She distractedly touches her fingertips to her own nipple, as if to scratch an itch, but pulls her hand away the second she notices Andy looking. “No, no, do that again,” Andy says, and brings Miranda’s hand back to her breast.

Miranda says nothing. She strokes one of her breasts and Andy strokes the other until Miranda’s hips are practically rolling of their own accord; still, something stops Andy from moving to her underwear, taking it off or going inside. Abruptly, Miranda stills. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “My mind is full, and I’m exhausted.”

“God, me too. I didn’t realize this is what jet lag would feel like. Never been far enough away to experience it before,” Andy admits.

“Just wait till tomorrow. It’ll be a dozen times worse.”

They sleep not entwined but close, limbs brushing, and, as in Paris, the sleep is black and sumptuous and starless, full of unremembered dreams. And things aren’t worse in the morning. The moment they wake at nine is the moment they realize they hadn’t set an alarm. Andy is still tired, but the sleepiness is almost welcome; somehow, she thinks, as long as she feels sleepy, she’ll be able to go to sleep with Miranda.

“Tonight?” Andy asks as they dress and prepare for the day.

“Yes. But you need to understand, Andrea—this isn’t just my house. I share it with two girls and a St. Bernard. It won’t be so empty next time you’re here. I’m—I’m trying to be a less horrible mother. So you’ll have to wait until 10:30 to come over, and don’t knock on the door. Just text when you’re here and I’ll let you in.”

“I understand. I don’t want to mess anything up for you.”

Because they aren’t friends, really, nor lovers, because there are twelve days left in their working relationship, because neither of them seem to know what to do now, Andy kisses Miranda on the cheek and leaves. She smiles as she makes her way down the steps, almost shaky with hope—and hunger. Remembering the state of her apartment, she buys an egg sandwich and coffee at the first bodega she sees.

She spends the rest of the day taking inventory. She separates _Runway_ clothes from the rest, walks the dirty ones to the dry cleaners in shifts, packages the clean ones and returns to _Runway_ by taxi with the first load that will fit. She cleans every inch of the apartment. She lists the TV, DVD player, sound system, and old digital camera, and a few pieces of her own furniture on Craigslist. By the end of the weekend, she has spent $120 on dry-cleaning but, thanks to Craigslist, has netted a $300 profit. The only items belonging to _Runway_ that remain in her possession comprise the outfit she’ll be wearing to work on Monday. The apartment is barren. Nothing to cook on, nothing to wear. No furniture except for her immaculately-organized bookcases. It’s a bit disorienting, especially in contrast to the messiness of recent weeks, but it’s a heady feeling. She’ll have to find a new apartment soon—breaking the lease will be costly, but unless Nate wants to find a roommate and take this place over, it’s her only option. There’s no way she can afford this place on her own, and there’s no way she’s living with anyone right now. _Except Miranda_ , her brain immediately adds. It’s uncomfortable how much the thought appeals to her, how much has changed in two days.

Both women are used to sacrificing sleep in order to keep working, to keep relationships alive a little longer, to maintain both late and early hours, but this behavior is curbed almost immediately after they start sleeping together. Days pass, and it’s the loveliest feeling, being rested, the loveliest craving to indulge. To sleep this much alone—a sign of ill health, surely, or the avoidance of something big. But because they’re doing it together, sleep feels like an almost noble pastime. As soon as work is done and the twins are in bed and it’s safe for them to get together, they sit in Miranda’s bedroom, talking and drinking—occasionally alcohol but more often San Pellegrino or even plain still water—and then they rest. With only a few exceptions, sleep is the only thing they’re immoderate about; they both sacrificed it for so long, but now the floodgates are open and they can’t get enough. 

If Miranda must stay out late for some unavoidable reason, Andrea lets herself in a safe distance after the twins’ bedtime and gets everything ready. (When Andrea’s twelve days were up, Miranda didn’t want her key back, and thank God.) If they’re having a drink that night, she sets out glasses and good Scotch and the ice bucket she insists upon. She is Miranda’s little Philistine when it comes to Scotch, preferring it on the rocks. She lays pajamas out on the bed, not that they always wear them. She turns down the covers, fluffs the pillows, dims the lights, maybe lights a candle, but only one, nothing embarrassing. Then Miranda comes home and walks across the threshold that separates the bedroom from the rest of the world. She accepts kisses and gives some in return. She holds Andy’s hand, lets Andy lead her into the bathroom so they can remove their makeup and clothes. All day long, she waits to be stripped down to nothing but a body falling asleep next to another body. She is not sure what she hopes for next.

Tonight, a Friday, Andy is the late one. She’s been working at the _Mirror_ for a few weeks now, and, for the first time, has been invited to go out with coworkers after work. Miranda buzzes with excitement as she turns down the cream-colored duvet and silky grey sheets. She glances at the nightstand, thinking of the smile that will grace Andrea’s face when she sees her surprise: bourbon instead of Scotch. They’ll be sleeping a bit less than usual due to this late night out, but the anticipation is divine. Miranda doesn’t even think about crawling into bed to get a head start. She’s been so happy all day long, knowing she’d have the chance to prepare the room, to wait for Andrea. She left work at a decent hour this evening, fixed supper herself, watched a boring cartoon movie with her daughters, kissed them goodnight, her mood light as air. 

There’s a tentative knock on the bedroom door. Miranda freezes; Andy never knocks, not at the door of this room, and according to a text message she sent earlier, she’s still about thirty minutes away. She tiptoes to the door and opens it a crack. Standing in the lamplit hallway is Caroline, her oldest by nine minutes, looking so sleepy and young that Miranda’s heart breaks a little. “Yes, darling?”

“The hall light is still on . . . why isn’t Andy here yet? Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?” She has no idea how to answer this question. She hadn’t realized either of her daughters were aware that Andrea has been spending the night, that she was still in touch with her at all.

“Can I come in?” Caroline’s voice is small and hushed.

Miranda nods and opens the door wider, embarrassed to have been keeping her daughter out. They sit on the bed together. “I know she’s been coming over,” Caroline says. “Sometimes I can hear you talking. But _not_ ,” Caroline is quick to add, “what you actually say. Or, if you’re out late and Cara stays over, I can hear someone coming in and chatting with her, then coming up to your room. Emily never talks to Cara. Plus, um, I saw you together once, on the stairs. You didn’t see me. I was hiding.”

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner? And what are you doing staying up so late? I had no idea you were awake.” Her heart sinks when she thinks about how tired Caroline has been in the mornings, how she complains about getting ready for school. Miranda had assumed she was approaching a growth spurt, not that she was willfully depriving herself of sleep. 

“I didn’t want you to be mad. You know, mad that I knew your secret. But I was curious.”

“It’s not a secret,” Miranda says, but she can hear how ridiculous a claim that is. “And Andrea is out late with friends. She’s fine.”

“Is she your, um,” Caroline swallows deeply, seeming to steel herself before repeating a memorized line. “Is she your _lesbian lover_?”

Miranda almost laughs in spite of herself. “I don’t know,” she says, too surprised to lie. 

“Mom.” Caroline tucks her legs beneath her. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that there’s been someone sleeping in our house every night and we weren’t even told about it?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Like, what if Cassidy ran into her in the hallway or something and got startled and attacked her?” Caroline grins a little at this, showing Miranda she’s only partially serious. 

“Cassidy doesn’t know?”

“You know she’s a heavy sleeper. Plus, I don’t have to tell Cassidy absolutely every thought I have just ‘cause we’re twins.”

“I know,” Miranda says tersely. She so doesn’t look forward to the added presence of preteen sourness in her house. 

Caroline pauses before speaking again. “I’m sorry?”

Miranda squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m not mad, darling. I’ll-I’ll talk to Cassidy. All right?” Just as soon as she figures out what the hell to say.

“I think she’s awake now. Gonna go tell her myself. We’ll go right back to sleep, promise. Talk to you in the morning!” 

Caroline bolts for the door, clearly having reached her Real Talk quota for the night—at least with her mother. Miranda knows she should follow her back to the girls’ bedroom, should summon every last bit of energy from her reserves and throw it into a confession, an apology, or at least an explanation. But she has no idea how to approach the conversation. She almost wishes Andrea had been in the room when Caroline knocked. At least there would have been one other adult obligated to speak. At least she could have observed Andrea’s reactions and used them to try to discern what the past six weeks have meant to her. 

She glances around the bedroom, which doesn’t feel like its own separate climate anymore. She feels as wide awake and irritable as she ever has, her lustful sleepiness evaporated. With a huff, she hoists herself off the bed, smoothes the covers where they were rumpled, grabs a lowball glass from her nightstand, and fills it with a scoop of Andy’s ice and a generous splash of bourbon. As it turns out, it’s fucking delicious cold, so she drinks it in two gulps and pours another. She sits in her vanity chair and sips, considering the change in the room, the loss of the feeling that it was a private universe for her and Andrea. She remembers their first day back from Paris, how she told Andrea _I’m trying to be a less terrible mother_ when she explained why she would need to wait until the girls were in bed to come over, why she’d need to get up and leave at sunrise. It’s obvious now how misguided she had been, assuming she could keep such a secret in her own home. Imagining that additional time with her daughters—on the days she can manage it—would make up for the ways she was still hiding. Miranda can’t remember a time she hasn’t been hiding something from someone. 

The room or her head or both are buzzy and loud and hot, so Miranda paces, thinking of everything else she should prepare to lose. She’s never told Andrea how much she loves her skin, her warmth, the feel of strong slender arms brushing against her (close but not suffocating) as she falls asleep. Her booming laugh, and the endearing way she tries to keep it quiet. Her stupid habit of crunching ice. She’s never admitted that she loves Andrea’s apartment, the shoebox-sized studio she’s only lived in a few weeks and has hardly slept in, all because of her. Andrea has insisted that they start sleeping there every other weekend, when the girls are with their grandmother, so that the neighbors and passersby don’t get the idea that it’s always vacant at night. The rest of the time, Andrea goes to the apartment at least once per day to turn on different combinations of lights, play the radio, cook a meal, make a little noise.

Miranda considers one of her finest victories to date the fact that Andrea reluctantly allowed her to pay the lease-breaking fee on the other, too expensive apartment she’d shared with her ex-boyfriend. The studio is apparently about a third of the old place’s size, but it’s closer to Miranda’s house and simultaneously minimalist and cozy. It contains the new queen-sized IKEA bed and sectional sofa purchased in part with money Andrea earned selling myriad junk on Craigslist. There’s a French press, a tea kettle, a frying pan, a saucepan, a miniature fridge, and several full bookcases, including one that’s been partially repurposed to hold the approximately four outfits she actually owns. A little end table near the door that, when they’re home, contains purses and Andy’s iPod and keys. That seems to be it. No TV. No stereo. A clanking radiator that, miraculously, doesn’t bother Miranda but simply reminds her that she is warm. Miranda often feels claustrophobic and short of breath in small spaces—elevators, tight stairwells, some closets—but Andrea’s apartment is perfect. Her safest place on earth outside of this room. They’ve only had one weekend in it together so far. What if that’s all they get?

Miranda is back in the chair, lost in a fantasy of that hard-won apartment and drinking a third rather large bourbon when Andy texts to say she’s arrived. _Just come up_ , Miranda types. She registers now—so obvious—the turning of the key in the lock, the footsteps on the stairs. How could they have assumed the house was soundproof, that the twins were both asleep whenever their room was dark? A minute later, Andy bursts into the bedroom. “Look at you drinking Bulleit,” she says, loud and loose and happy. 

Immediately Miranda can tell she’s drunk. “Keep your voice down,” she snaps, and instantly feels guilty. She hasn’t spoken harshly to Andy she was her employer. She’s sworn she wouldn’t lose her temper this time, not in this relationship, not without cause, but now she tries to tell herself that it no longer matters. 

Andy looks hurt, but she calmly helps herself to bourbon and sits on the edge of the bed, just across from Miranda’s chair. “Don’t I get a hello kiss?” she asks.

“You’re drunk,” Miranda says, but she gets up unsteadily and sits next to Andy on the bed. 

“So? So are you,” Andrea says, and steals her kiss. She slings an arm around Miranda’s shoulders and takes a long drink. She looks as casual and carefree as a sorority girl, not at all like someone who’d want to trap herself night after night in a quiet room with a middle-aged woman. “Why’d you get started without me? Something the matter?”

Miranda sighs and recounts her conversation with Caroline, hating the way the bourbon makes a few of her words cling wetly together. A shiver of panic runs through her; she is rarely drunk, and now she feels trapped in the feeling. 

“I’m so sorry,” Andy says. “I thought I was being quieter. I had no idea Caroline was staying up.”

“Neither did I.”

“Look, if something needs to change, I get it.”

Miranda feels panic rise in her throat like bile. Change? More like end, she assumes Andrea means, as predicted, and this reinforces the decision to beat her to the punch. “I’m sure it won’t be long until you find your next boyfriend.” She forces her voice to stay measured. If Andrea can consider throwing this away at the first sign of trouble, so can she. “And I’m sure some man will appear in my life eventually, whether I want him to or not. After the divorce everything will go back to normal.”

“What are you saying? Normal? What would that even be, after this?”

“Well, yes. You’re straight, aren’t you? And lonely. I’ve always known that, I haven’t been fooling myself into thinking we had some kind of, of relationship—” Miranda usually likes her own voice. She has mastered it, after all, over decades. But she hates it now, how sleek and unfeeling it sounds.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think you get to tell me what I am.” Andy’s face is blotchy pink, her eyes full of unshed tears. She takes her arm away. “And I think you’re lying. God, Miranda, haven’t you noticed that I touch your boobs basically every chance I get? And we make out practically every night. At least a little bit.”

“Keep. Your. Voice. Down.”

“It’s been weeks. I know you’re attracted to me. I know you’re sick of men. And sure, you weren’t ready to tell your daughters, but now they’re in on it, and you’re freaking out. Just admit it and move on. Friends don’t take off their clothes and snuggle each other to sleep every night.”

Miranda’s head swims. Andy is exactly right, and it’s terrifying. “Then why don’t you ever try to have sex with me?”

“Ugh, that makes it sound like I’d have to take it from you or something. Remember in Paris, when we almost had sex? You know why I didn’t go for it right then? Because you looked so scared, and so sad. My big plan, which I thought you were on board with, was that we could, like, get healthy first. Sleep well, preferably in the same bed. Eat right. Tie up our loose ends, which, other than all the bullshit with Stephen’s stupid attorney, has worked out pretty well. Spend more time together. It’s been weeks of doing that, and it’s been so fantastic but I’m frankly terrified to ask for more. You may have noticed that you’re kind of intimidating? Maybe I should’ve spelled it out for you better, but I figured you were smart enough to get it.” 

Miranda breathes. She will not cry. “All right,” she says, hoping to sound appeasing. “I understand—” But she doesn’t. It’s been a lot of decades since she was able to plausibly add “tie up loose ends” to a to-do list.

“And now I’m freaking out too, because you don’t seem to know the difference between me being willing to change things up to _make it easier on you and your kids_ and me not caring about your feelings at all. I mean, are you actually happier pretending this is some big hetero cuddle-fest? Because until tonight you sure haven’t been acting like this is something you could give up.”

“No. Of course not. I’m just upset, I was only—I’d like to think you know me better than that.”

“Well, ninety percent of the time we spend together, we’re unconscious. So I don’t really know what to think right now.”

Miranda bows her head. 

Andrea continues. “There were almost more words between us when I was your assistant. You’d wake me up with a demanding text at two a.m., which was like a signal from you about your insomnia, about being lonely and bored. And, actually, I think you wanted me to know that you weren’t sleeping with Stephen anymore. Then I’d see you’d already been on email when I got up at six. And I’m sure you weren’t getting solid hours of sleep in between. It was a mess. We were so tired all the time. I was so anxious to hear from you, but I hated watching you run us both ragged.” She pauses, as if to let Miranda speak, but keeps going before Miranda can figure out what to say. “Are you really going to date guys again? I don’t want you to. I’m not gonna get a boyfriend. I promise.” She is almost whining; she sounds young.

“I don’t know what to do,” Miranda says honestly, but even amidst her annoyance at the whine in Andrea’s voice, she feels a flicker of hope. 

“I’m going to throw up.”

“Oh, Andy.” The nickname is in Miranda’s head all the time, but she only uses it out loud when she’s feeling especially desperate or in love or both. “Calm down. You don’t have anything to worry about.” 

But Andrea—Andy now, even though she used to think Andrea, skinny and tall in those thigh-high boots, was the one she’d fallen for—is already standing. “No, literally, I’m going to throw up,” she says on the way to the bathroom. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to hold back my hair or anything.” 

Still, she leaves the door ajar. Miranda’s heart clinches when she hears the heaving begin. She rushes in, ignoring the way the room spins, kneels on the floor next to Andy, strokes her back. She wants to soothe, but leaves her hand to that part. Her mouth does otherwise. “Andrea. Andy. It’s complicated—”

Andy holds up an index finger as if to ask Miranda to pause, leans her head over the toilet bowl, and heaves again. Miranda stays with her throughout, relatively unphased. When Andy finishes, she flushes the toilet before she’s even stood up, plainly disgusted with herself. She glowers at her reflection in the mirror as she brushes her teeth, but waves a hand at Miranda, urging her to continue. 

Miranda appreciates this. Now that they’ve opened the topic, sleep will be impossible if they don’t make progress, and they absolutely must sleep. “As I was saying, there are complications. It’s been easy for us to carve out space in this one part of the house. Although maybe,” she concedes, “not as convenient for you as for me. I was silly to think it could be like this forever without some evaluation. Without anyone else getting in.” Of course she had been lying before. She has been foolish. She’s thought _relationship_ , she’s thought _forever_. 

“Are you talking about men or are you talking about stuff with your kids?” Andy asks from around a mouthful of toothpaste. “Because I don’t give a fuck about men, but I give a million fucks about the wellbeing of Caroline and Cassidy.” She spits emphatically, then looks apologetically at Miranda. “I know I’m really gross right now.” She laughs without mirth. “I may have gotten a little excited about being out with my new coworkers.”

“How much did you drink, anyway?”

“A big vodka tonic and a beer. Not too ridiculous, but they didn’t go so well with the chicken wings and fried pickles. Not to mention the bourbon—I was fine until I started drinking that. Thank you, by the way, for getting Bulleit. If we put it away for a few weeks I’m sure I’ll enjoy it eventually.”

“You’re welcome,” Miranda says calmly. If she puts away the bourbon, will Andy will be around to drink it when she’s ready to get it back out?

“Miranda, I’m giving this a huge chance. I want you to do the same. I want to hear you say you’ll never date another guy. Listen to yourself for once.” 

She is begging, and it makes Miranda feel incredibly uncomfortable. So, instead of replying, she grabs her own toothbrush and begins her evening ablutions. It sounds so good, the life Andrea is trying to offer. But Andrea is afraid of her. Caroline is afraid of her, and surely Cassidy is too, even if she’s been sleeping through Miranda’s latest betrayal of her trust. She feels as far from happiness as she did in Paris. And old, when everyone else is young. “Let’s go to sleep,” she says when she’s finally ready. “Give me a moment in here, please.”

There are still clothes to deal with, and by the time Miranda exits the bathroom Andrea has made a decision for them. For the first time, she is fully naked, and Miranda is hit with the same cocktail of lust and guilt and overwhelm that strikes her every time she witnesses Andrea’s beauty. This girl is only twenty-four. Everything is ahead of her. How is it that she’s here in Miranda’s bedroom, muddling things up for both of them? 

“Come here,” Andy says, perching at the edge of the bed on top of the turned-down covers. Kneeling, she reaches for Miranda and unbuttons and unzips and unties her with almost excruciating gentleness. Pulls herself up so she can kiss each of Miranda’s breasts. “It’s pretty much biologically impossible not to have a lesbian relationship with these,” Andy mutters. Even now, in this tense moment, the kisses make lightning strike at her spine. Her fingers pause at the waistband of Miranda’s underwear. “This okay?” she asks, and Miranda nods. Then they are naked together. Not such a massive threshold, it turns out, between naked and clothed. Not compared to the bedroom door, or the hotel in Paris, or their exchange in the bathroom just now. 

“How are you feeling?” Miranda asks when they have turned out their lamps. As usual, Andy pulls the duvet over them both and wraps Miranda in her arms. They can’t actually fall asleep like this, but it’s how they usually start. 

“Honestly, much better now that I puked,” she says, chuckling. “You?”

The truth sneaks out. “Like the least desirable person in the universe.”

Andrea holds her closer. “Oh, honey, why?” It’s the first term of endearment anyone has directed at Miranda in a long, long time. 

Because everyone is afraid of her, and fear is, actually, a turn-off for her. Because her own fear is nauseating. Because the room is still spinning. Because she has no idea why she can’t just say yes. Why she feels she must consider men. Why she can’t just commit and spread her legs for this woman and be done with it. “Go to sleep,” she says, as gently as possible. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?”

“Yeah,” Andy says. She kisses Miranda’s neck. When the kiss is done, she doesn’t move her mouth away. That warm, slightly damp pressure on her neck is the last thing Miranda remembers before falling asleep.

**

In the still-dark bedroom, Miranda is aware of her pounding head before she even realizes she is awake. She slithers out from Andrea’s loose hold and pads to the bathroom, where, almost on autopilot despite the fact that it’s been many years since she was this hungover, she washes three Advil down with tap water. She refills the glass and grabs two more for Andrea, whose eyes are open—and apprehensive, Miranda thinks—when she returns. 

“Headache?” Miranda whispers, sitting next to her curved form on the bed, and Andy nods. “Here, take these.” Andy sits up to gulp the pills gratefully, and Miranda tries not to think too much about how naked they are. When Andy has swallowed, Miranda leans down and kisses her forehead. 

“Will you get back in bed?” 

Miranda assents. She slides back in and, for the second time in what feels like only a couple of hours, feels herself covered and wrapped and warmed. One of Andy’s hands immediately finds her breasts, takes turns with them as if she can’t decide which to touch. The jolts of pleasure briefly distract Miranda from her headache. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Andy says, fingers still circling. “I think I should stick around this morning. Make breakfast for you guys. Talk to the girls. I owe them an apology.”

“No, I do.” 

“We both do.” She speaks with finality, as if the matter is settled. And, Miranda supposes, maybe this part of it is. Breakfast wouldn’t be so bad. It’s a Saturday, and children are usually in good moods on Saturdays. And if they can resolve this, everyone can get more sleep. Caroline won’t have to torture herself staying up past her bedtime, listening for footsteps. For Miranda’s own part, if she’s been able to sleep this well even given the sneaking around, how much better will it be now that the secret is dissolved? The day has hardly begun and she’s already tired. 

Downstairs, while Miranda makes coffee, Andy makes herself at home in the kitchen, pulling out the canister of oats, rummaging through the spice rack.

“Oatmeal?” Her girls are not going to be impressed by oatmeal.

“Non-gross oatmeal,” Andy replies, as if this is supposed to be clarifying. 

By the time the girls come downstairs, eyes a little wide at the sight of Andy in the kitchen, the oatmeal bubbling on the stove isn’t much to look at but the entire first floor of the house smells like cinnamon and warm brown sugar. Normally the house smells seasonless but right now it matches the November outside. Even nervous, even wondering what in the world Andy plans to say, Miranda takes in the grey drizzling of the windows and the warmth inside. It settles her to remember weather. 

“Hey, girls,” Andy says. “Good morning.” She stirs the oatmeal in a studied fashion. “Caroline, would you please get out the peanut butter?” Caroline hops to it. “Cassidy, do you guys have honey?” Cassidy nods and joins her sister at the pantry. Miranda has to remind herself, then, that Andy has actually met the girls before, that she’s spoken to them in other contexts, that no one here is a stranger.

“We owe you an apology,” Andy says abruptly, glancing only briefly at Miranda before turning her attention to the girls. “We shouldn’t have let it get to this point without telling you that I was going to be spending time at the house. Your mom and I just—we didn’t want it to be weird. Or too much for you. But I’m really sorry.”

“I didn’t even know,” Cassidy says. 

Miranda’s voice loosens from the grip of her throat. “I know, bobbsey, and I’m sorry too.”

Andy ladles the oatmeal into four bowls. “Pick out what toppings you want,” she says before anyone has a chance to respond to Miranda’s apology. “I recommend both honey and peanut butter—just a drizzle, so it gets all melty—and a little more cinnamon and brown sugar to sprinkle on top.” 

Miranda and the girls comply, and then Andy fixes hers. Rather than sitting together at the table, Caroline and Cassidy stay at the island, and the adults stand there with them, guzzling coffee and spooning the oatmeal into their mouths. 

“It’s really good,” Caroline says, sounding a bit surprised.

“Yeah. Thanks, Andy.” Cassidy says. 

“You’re welcome.” Andy smiles. “And look, I don’t want to make us talk this over all day long. But I really am sorry for weirding you out, and I want you to know that I’m not going to intrude on all of your time with your mom. When I’m around, you’ll know it. Okay?”

The twins’ mouths are glued shut with oatmeal, but they nod. And suddenly Miranda realizes that the worst part about this moment isn’t censure or judgment or a feeling of awkwardness or any of the things she’d been expecting. She simply wants to put her arms around Andy and feels like she can’t. 

She does embrace her later, at the door, when Andy is about to leave. She is quiet and out of sorts and hates the way she clings but can’t help it.

“Hey,” Andy whispers. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Miranda nods, her head bent to fit into the slope of Andy’s neck. She feels Andy draw a big breath, waits for an exhalation and realizes it will come out in words. “I think you should talk to Dr. Bianco about this,” Andy says. “About the kids finding out.”

“You don’t get to dictate what our sessions entail.”

“I know. But I get to have an opinion.”

“Have you given any more thought to seeing someone soon?”

“Yeah. Actually I have an appointment for this coming Wednesday.”

“Good.” They stay wrapped in each other a little longer. “Okay, get out of here,” Miranda says eventually, and she watches Andy from the window until she can’t see her anymore. 

This year—this year of hiring Andrea and falling in love with her and losing another marriage and clinging to work and feeling her daughters slip away emotionally and witnessing the tentative new way they’ve come tiptoeing back—has felt like being thrown into the backseat of a car and driven at high speeds to an unknown location. She can barely see out the window, can recognize no landmark long enough to place herself there, and Miranda wants to give in to the panic; she wants the catharsis that comes from giving in and moving forward from there. But she is herself.

For years Miranda has kept, without even trying, a mental list of the ways her friends and acquaintances admit to soothing themselves when it’s all too much. “I cry at the movies.” “When I’m driving alone on the highway, sometimes I scream.” “Rocky Road. So much Rocky Road.” “Kickboxing.” “I wish I could say ‘yoga’ but I just buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke them one by one.” Double-fudge brownies lap-swimming hiking polaroid manipulations mixed media collage a casual fuck. But Miranda’s arsenal is empty; she lacks yoga and cigarettes, nor does she long for either. She has no desire to do any of the things her friends do to feel better.

But she can try. And trying, she has realized, counts for something in Andrea’s book. So on Monday morning she makes an appointment for Friday with Dr. Bianco, the therapist she’s been seeing off and on. In the meantime, she lives sleep to sleep.

**

“Miranda, these feelings of inadequacy that we’ve discussed: it sounds like a lot of that can be traced back to your attempts to find your children a father figure. Those attempts have been important to you. They’ve brought meaning to your personal life for over a decade now. But from what you’ve shared during the last couple of sessions, it’s evident that those relationships haven’t been working for your daughters or for you. They haven’t lived up to the ideal family structure you’ve described. And your children have picked up on the problems this has caused, which only increases those fears about inadequacy.” As she finishes her speech, Dr. Bianco furrows her brow, as if concerned by what Miranda might say.

A layer of sweat forms between Miranda’s palms and the armrests of the oxblood leather chair in which she sits. She waits for Dr. Bianco to continue, perhaps to pepper the silence with one of her tic-like “How does that make you feel”s or “What are you feeling now?”s. But the silence persists.

Finally: “Miranda? Would you say that’s an accurate summary of where we’ve ended up so far?”

Miranda nods. To speak would be to start crying, and Miranda does not cry at therapy. She does not cry in front of Dr. Paula Bianco. She cries alone in the shower, with the water nearly hot enough to scald, or not at all. Dr. Bianco keeps her desk clock tilted so she can see its face but her clients cannot. Still, Miranda assumes there are only ten or so minutes left in this appointment. She forces herself to make eye contact with Dr. Bianco, who offers one of her calm, comforting smiles, so familiar after sitting here once every week or two for the past five months.

“You want to know what I think, Miranda? I think that kids don’t so much need a particular type of parent. Or exactly two parents, no matter what. There isn’t a formula—they just need a home where they are loved. You’re totally equipped to provide them with that. You do provide them with that. So why force the rest?”

Miranda has been so stupid with her life. Has she been stupid about her children, too? It seems, now, that she has. Her first impulse is to hate herself. She can say things like that here, and sometimes does: “I hate myself.” But even she can admit that it isn’t that simple.

Right now she is floating above this appointment, this small, ornate office on the thirty-third floor of a multi-use Manhattan tower. Floating above the salt line threatening to muck up her vision. She sees Caroline and Cassidy, done with school for the day, already on the train with the nanny for their regular weekend with John’s mother. She sees herself missing them, and at the same time she sees a weekend of getting what she wants. She sees the nights of deep sleep she’s had almost every night since that last night in Paris. They were both so tired that night, and still so tired when they got back. The sleep has been so good.

If there are ten minutes left in this session, she’ll be at Andrea’s studio apartment in fifty minutes, or a bit longer, depending on Friday evening rush hour. In an hour and fifteen minutes, the online grocery order she placed earlier in the week will arrive. In an hour and twenty minutes, she’ll be cooking. In two hours, Andy will be home from work, with no shifts scheduled for the weekend. 

The ten minutes run out one by one, not as slowly as predicted. Dr. Bianco waits, a near-vacant look on her face, like she is unconditionally ready for anything Miranda might say. But Miranda needs these minutes quiet, so she can breathe through the epiphany of never suffering another father figure again. She is smart enough to know Dr. Bianco is right, and doesn’t need to parse this one out with her. She already gave the therapist the necessary pieces to puzzle this one out—the utterly essential sleep next to Andy Sachs; the feeling that her body is any good only when it is armed with tailored clothes or in silk pajamas or naked (in a dress she is a monster); the falsehood that what is best for everyone else is something that must hurt her, that the holes left by a few-times-a-year father must be filled—and the final minutes must be _quiet_.

**

The grocery delivery is exactly right, well-packed, on time, all there. As soon as she scrawls a tip on the receipt for the delivery man, Miranda hoists the box into the kitchen and puts away the groceries. She knows where most items go, and guesses when she doesn’t. There is at once a haste and a neatness to her movements. She’d like dinner to be mostly ready by the time Andy appears. And she wants the other groceries—the items not needed for this dinner, the cheeses and cereals and fruit Andy has mentioned that she likes—to be already integrated into the tiny pantry and fridge. This is what she wants to be for Andy: a needed but natural thing.

**

The dinner and extra groceries earn Miranda several hugs. And later that night, after they’ve eaten and talked and Andrea has cleaned up (“You cooked, so I’ll clean,” she insists) and prepared for bed and are actually lying in bed, they turn to look at each other. 

Miranda feels warm inside her navy blue silk pajamas—sharp-edged, swollen, wet between her legs, wide awake with nerves. “I’m done, all right? Done trying with men.”

Andrea smiles. “Thank God,” she says, her voice a bit strangled.

Miranda heaves a sigh. She needs a distraction and her mind lands on an itch about an inch above her belly button. She drags her right hand down the front of her pajama shirt, scratches at the spot, and is startled when Andrea gasps a little.

“Sorry. You’re just, um, the way you look when you touch yourself like that...”

Miranda grins against her nerves. She drags her fingers up again, circles her left breast through silk, and the nipple rises to meet her fingertips almost instantaneously.

“Oh my God,” Andy breathes. “Keep going. Please. If you’re ready. I’m ready.”

“You’re beautiful,” Andy says as Miranda undresses herself, though she doesn’t move to touch any part of her. Miranda is even warmer now, but goosebumps rise on her arms. She has never masturbated in front of anyone before. She plays with her breasts, breathing shakily, relief and anticipation coursing through her. She glances at Andy and sees such warmth and love in her eyes. “That’s it, baby,” Andy says softly, and Miranda realizes Andy has been practicing this in her head, waiting for this moment when she could use a term of endearment to be encouraging during sex. The words shoot directly to Miranda’s clit. She follows the feeling with her fingers, stroking with a slight up-and-down motion right where she needs it, right where everything she feels has coalesced. She touches herself for minutes and minutes, and Andy sweeps the hair from her sweaty forehead, places a kiss on her shoulder, grabs Miranda’s free hand in one of her own and moves it so they are touching one of Miranda’s breasts together, moans in response to Miranda’s moans. 

_I’m taking too long_ , Miranda thinks. _I can’t do this_. Sex, even masturbatory sex, has always been this way for her: the fear of not making it to orgasm becoming bigger than everything else. It’s sabotage to let that fear take over right in the middle of something that’s supposed to be purely enjoyable, but this is her habit. She cries out in frustration and rubs harder. “Baby,” Andy says again. “Be gentle. It’s gonna be so good. So good.” Miranda pushes away the _can’t_ , breathes in, tries to lighten her touch and listen to what she feels. After a couple more minutes, the room quiets to nothing but the sound of their breathing, and an orgasm starts to flutter against her fingers. She teases it out, dips inside her own body, cups herself and drives her hips into the vibrating surface of palm against clit. She keens as it hits full force, and keeps moaning after it’s done, keeps rubbing her fingers against herself until she comes a second time. She is trying to catch her breath and can’t look at Andy, is suddenly ashamed, when Andy says, “Can you keep going?”

“I don’t know.” Miranda has hardly ever come twice in a row before, much less a third time. But she moves her hand back between her legs. She is tender and swollen but a soft touch doesn’t hurt. 

“Can I help?”

Miranda nods, and with that Andy finds Miranda’s entrance with her fingers. She takes her time, coating the fingers with plenty of moisture, then gently slides two inside. It’s incredible—Andy is touching the inside of her body. Miranda has had sex plenty of times, has been penetrated plenty of times, but even when previous partners have used their fingers it’s never felt like being touched, exactly. In the past the point of those acts has always been the penetration, not the space inhabited.

They go slowly. It takes Andy a couple minutes to settle into a rhythm; when she does, the effect is almost soothing. Miranda barely has to apply any pressure to her clit—her fingers just rest there, trembling—until she starts to come again. Then they both speed up, everything harder and faster and more intense. 

Even now, full of a dozen little euphorias—the joy of being in love, the relief of making a decision, the clarity of endorphins—Miranda is reminded that she doesn’t know how to hold on to this type of experience. Dread creeps in, but Miranda bundles it up, tucks it into her ribcage, turns all of her attention to loving Andy. 

**

Everything except for sleeping remains exploratory, remains a little shy. But everyone _tries_. Miranda is overwhelmed, actually, to witness so many humans trying hard in relation to something important to her that isn't the magazine. She witnesses the cautious, polite optimism of the Sachs parents. Caroline and Cassidy’s willingness to be themselves around Andy on the still relatively rare occasions they spend together. The secondhand invitations she receives to hang out with Andy’s friends, who never quite know what to say to her but are very tolerant of her presence. 

In the midst of such tender, tentative months, it's a shock when Andrea’s best friend Lily announces that she’s getting married to a painter she met in New York but who lives in the Pacific Northwest. They’ve known each other a month, and half of that’s been long-distance. 

Everyone who can get to Seattle for the ceremony is invited, so Andy and Miranda go. They are shocked at the impulsiveness: Andy in a manner that tends toward delight, Miranda aghast. It’s a lovely whirlwind of a wedding weekend, slapdash and earnest and filled with art. 

And, Miranda can admit, it feels good to be out with Andy far from home, at an event at which they are far from the spotlight. She is, she thinks, almost too relaxed, too comfortable. 

**

On the red eye home, Andy buys Bloody Marys for herself and Miranda as soon as the East Coast sunrise starts to light up their windows. She pulls a twenty from her wallet and orders for both of them when the flight attendant comes around. By doing this, she is apologizing without actually apologizing. Apologizing for booking them in economy class seats. (“I literally could not bring myself to pay for First Class. It’s such a waste of money.” “But you were using my credit card.” “I know. I just—”) Apologizing for the fact that they've been traveling all night, that it is not quite six a.m. on a Monday when they both have to work. 

The flight attendant returns with plastic cups full of ice, cans of Bloody Mary mix, little vials of vodka, and four dollars’ change, which Andy tells her to keep. “You’ve got the right kind of daughter,” the flight attendant says to Miranda, smiling warmly and with an utter lack of recognition.

“Oh, I’m not her daughter,” Andy says. She can’t decide if the sentence comes too quickly or not quickly enough. Miranda’s face is terrifying—blank but not slack, like everything about her that is pink and alive can freeze on command.

The woman has the decency to blush, an apology-without-apologizing of her own. “My mistake,” she says, and walks quickly away. Andy puts her arm around Miranda’s shoulder, no easy feat considering the upright bulkiness of airplane seats, and pulls her close. She kisses Miranda’s cheek, and would whisper in her ear if she could think of anything to say. Instead, she kisses the ear too, and smiles against it when she hears Miranda’s barely audible intake of air.

“Stop,” Miranda says now, quietly so that no other passengers can hear.

“Sorry,” Andy whispers, disentangling herself and settling back into her own seat. They mix their drinks and sip in silence. Although Miranda is humiliated, and was already in a terrible mood, she loves the peaceful grey hush of the airplane’s interior, the way it contrasts with the red tomato juice. They could make a better Bloody Mary at home, but this one is good enough. By time the plane skids to a halt on the runway, Miranda has taken Andy’s hand, but the act is one of private mourning. Everything is wrong within her.

“Don’t work a second later than you have to,” Andy says at baggage claim. “And text me when you’re on your way home, and I’ll come over right away. I should be done by five, so no big deal there.”

Miranda waits for her in the foyer that evening. They’re alone in the house, and she cannot let Andrea make it all the way in; she is not cruel enough to to want to watch her wind her way back out again. There isn’t an appropriate preamble anywhere in the universe. “I can’t do this,” Miranda says.

“No. No.” 

The monosyllable echoes in the room as Andy sobs, but there’s nothing to be done but apologize. 

**

For months after the break-up, Miranda feels not human so much as a swamp encased in human skin.

She views the world as if through a smeared window. If she wasn’t so good at quick decisions, if she wasn’t such a genius at sticking to even the worst of her choices, everyone in her life would know that something was wrong. But, like always, she is able to say yes to this skirt and no to that necklace, yes to this dinner and no to that drink, to allow the twins to attend one party but prohibit another. She wills autopilot to take over and hardly anything is sacrificed. 

But every time she is alone, she dwells on the one decision she made slowly, the decision to truly be with Andy, which also happens to be the one thing she can honestly admit to single-handedly ruining. She has been complicit in plenty of wrongdoing, but this one belongs entirely to her. And for what? So she doesn’t have to feel the temporary embarrassment of being misidentified by a stranger as Andrea’s mother? So she doesn’t have to worry about what will happen the longer Andy knows and knows and knows her? (Or, as it happens, knew and knew and knew.) Such paltry comforts. 

Still, although she breaks apart, cries in front of Dr. Bianco and never makes another appointment with her again, finishes the Bulleit then quits drinking for a year, forgoes even platonic dates at every event she attends, although she obsesses and obsesses—she never once questions her quick decision to break up with Andy. If she is the type of person to ruin something good out of fear of a tiny discomfort, then she could be given a dozen scenes of forgiveness and reconciliation and she’d figure out a way to smash every single one.

When something breaks—a ripped shirt sleeve, a torn book cover—her girls often joke, “This is why we can’t have nice things.” Of course, they have very nice things, and so does Miranda. Miranda’s problem isn’t a state of brokenness; it is her ability to destroy a thing that needed only gentle tending. And that is why she can’t be trusted with nice things, why she steers clear of any nice thing that isn’t already bound to her by blood or money. 

**

When they have been broken up for six months, an email arrives from Andy. “Dear family and friends,” it begins, and a rage spikes in Miranda’s throat. “I’m excited to announce that I’ve taken a job in Chicago and have a new mailing address…”

Andy leaves a trail for Miranda. She moves four or five times in the next few years, always within Chicago. Every time Andy moves, Miranda is reminded that, even if she is only included so that Andrea can make a passive point, she is counted among her friends or family. Although she never takes advantage, she keeps her address book updated with every new location, every new cell phone number, every new workplace. 

Miranda stays put, though her children grow up around her. 

For a long time, it hurts to be only one of what could be a hundred or more BCC’d names on the list of Andrea’s people. But time works its slow magic on the swamp inside her, and eventually it returns to her a skeleton and musculature and rational thought. She is grateful, then, to know that Andrea is safe, and probably happy. 

On a late afternoon in autumn, Miranda sits idle at her desk. The magazine is early in the current production schedule, and, with a couple of hours to spare before she is due at Cassidy’s senior fall sports banquet, she can afford a moment of calm. She watches in wonder as, only briefly, golden light crystallizes every reflective surface in her office like honey. And despite feeling fine, despite being grateful for every person she likes or loves, Miranda still wishes only to show this warm, ephemeral brilliance to Andrea. 

The light is already fading as she rifles through her desk drawer for a pen that feels good in her hands. She locates a stack of her old stationery, rarely used in this era of the paperless office, and counts out several sheets. She breathes. And then she writes Andrea a letter.


End file.
